


Crisis Call Center for Ghosts

by CatalystOfTheSoul



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, gay allegory, general havoc and fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalystOfTheSoul/pseuds/CatalystOfTheSoul
Summary: Valerie couldn't believe the headlines.FENTON SON OPENS CRISIS CALL CENTER FOR GHOSTS.Had that boy gone crazy?
Comments: 91
Kudos: 362





	1. The Interview

Valerie doesn’t enjoy cooking. It takes too much time, too much planning, and too much cleaning. For this reason, she also doesn’t like grocery shopping. Microwave-ready box lunch, a box of cereal, and a packet of pre cooked sausages gets old after a while. And expensive. So today she decided to try something different. A fruit salad, which is easy to make, doesn’t involve any cooking, and the cleanup can be worried about later. Plus she needs more fruit. A healthy diet is a healthy body, and a healthy body kicks more ass.

The minimart is, well, mini. A man in a blue shirt and a nametag with a name that’s been apparently scratched off stands in front of her. “What do you mean you don’t have any grapes?” He shrugs, brown skin perspiring around his forehead. “We don’t have any.”

“This display was full this morning.”

“You should have bought them this morning, then. Ghost worms.” The attendant wiggled his fingers like creepy crawlies and walked off.

Valerie glared. A familiar buzz hummed in both ears and she sighed, forcing herself to calm down. She’s not activating her ghost gear in the middle of a mini-mart. Nope. Not here.

She bought twelve energy bars and a couple TV dinners then left the store. Evening waned, her beat up red sedan parked far in the back. Val gave it a sour look and stopped to scoop up the Amity News and Review from a case by the door. She scanned the headline (Mayor Donates to New Nonprofit) and flipped to the Ghost Alert. She threw her groceries on top of her car and read.

She expected the usual blurry photo of a ghost she’d already seen, or a stock image of Phantom, with a title about the latest attack. She liked to read about the damages, which usually said something about the fight itself. If she was fast enough, if Phantom was any help, if the ghost was too much… What she did not expect was a photo of Danny Fenton and his parents, frozen in a heated argument. Jack’s arms raised, Danny’s folded, a black glare shooting at his mother, who waggled a finger at him.

_ FENTON SON OPENS CRISIS CALL CENTER FOR GHOSTS. In a startling turn of events, the mayor announced Sunday morning that he would be funding a local non-profit for the youngest ghost hunter in the city - _

Valerie snapped the paper shut and leapt off the wall. Youngest ghost hunter in the city,  _ Danny Fenton _ , was probably the greatest insult and funniest thing she’d heard all year, but Valerie’s capacity for humor had shut off. Her ears were buzzing again. She fumbled at the door of the car, but the noise grew so loud that she knew it was over. Adrenaline up too high, her suit activated and wrapped her in a metal cocoon that catapulted into the sky, almost forgotten groceries flapping at her side.

She landed underneath the science-fiction daydream of a house within minutes, and almost forget to duck behind the house to deactivate her uniform before running up the steps to pound on the door. A bleary-eyed Jack Fenton answered, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced with a gruffness, “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t know. Probably  _ talking _ to  _ ghosts _ .” Jack’s eyes grew even darker.

“Who is that?” A woman asked from within, and around Jack appeared his daughter, who maintained the air of her father’s cheerfulness even under great duress. “Valerie!” Jazz squeezed past her father, who gave her a hurt look before disappearing back into the house.

“Where is he?”

Jazz folded her arms. “You’re not going to yell at him too, are you?”

“Jazz.”

She sighed. “…He’s at his new office. It’s on the corner of Mason and Wells. He took a suitcase there…” She paled, “Wait, don’t leave!”

“Why?”

“Hold on.” Jazz disappeared. The door hung open, Valerie peeked inside. The usually tidy home wasn’t very tidy, a throw blanket hung over a lamp on the floor in the middle of the room. The TV lay on its side, the screen shattered. Jazz raced back down the stairs, a bundle overflowing in her arms. She shoved it at Val, “Blankets and pillows. He forgot.” She stressed, and set a toothbrush and toothpaste on top. “Can I give you some money? I don’t think he’s had food yet today. He needs to eat.”

“I have groceries.” An argument erupted deeper in the house, “Are you okay?”

“Oh everything is fine - ” A door slammed. Jazz flinched. “…I have a lot to do. You do too. See you later.” She closed the door.

_ I do too? _ Valerie thought. She was back in the sky in seconds, heading for her next destination. Evening had begun as a quiet affair; it was the ghosting hour, twilight. Not so much of a curfew as a self-imposed stay inside rule. People didn’t go out when the sun started to fall, they’d shut down, stay inside, and wait until ten pm. Ghosts preferred the inbetween-hours. She swept over the currently dead streets, knowing they would come back to life in hours.

She found a small unassuming warehouse with a brick exterior at the corner of Mason and Wells in a neighborhood full of the same. She walked up to the front door, but it was locked, so she went around back, which had a slightly ajar door. Valerie deactivated her huntress suit and stepped inside. The warehouse opened up into a huge room full of delivery boxes, beeping Fenton-esque equipment, and a simple desk with Tucker Foley typing away on it. She took another step and he spotted her. “Oh, hey! Man, it feels like I’ve seen the whole town today.”

She dropped everything on the desk, blankets unraveled, the toothpaste hit the floor. “Delivery.”

He frowned. “Did you…take these from Danny’s room?”

“Jazz sends her regards. Where’s Danny?”

Tucker squinted at her. “What for?”

“I need to seem him.”

He kept frowning. “Why?”

She glared, impatient. “Because I need to see him, that’s why.””

“If you’re here to tell him he’s ruining his family’s legacy, you’ll need to get in line. I recommend an appointment, because it’s really not a good idea to go back there right now.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled. “How about we set up an appointment for not-evervember, 3082?”

“Tucker.”

“I can do the summer of 1999. Or we might have an opening in Mayuary.”

“Ugh!” Valerie stomped past the desk and into the warehouse. It was a bustle of activity. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Tucker called after her, unusually cheerful.

The warehouse was a disaster of boxes and packing foam. Sam Manson stood in the center of chaos, a bluetooth in one ear and a walkie in her hand. She spotted Valerie and a fury entered her eyes, “Turn around.”

“I - ”

“I said turn around.”

Valerie stood her ground. “No. I’m here to talk to Danny.”

“You and everyone else.” Sam casually replaced the walkie and rested her hand on an ectogun strapped to her hip. “You want to talk to him you’re going to have to get through me.”

Valerie lifted her eyebrows. “What, you’re threatening me with a gun that doesn’t work on people?”

Sam tilted her head. She whistled. The ground shook when a box snapped on the ground. A man with black skin and dark eyes marched over; Valerie’s ear beeped in warning. The man morphed as he moved, his skin fading away and shifting into a black flame, his eyes a glossy glowing green, he morphed into an ethereal beast that sat beside Manson and barred its glittering teeth.

This did not impress. “Estoni, niet.”(I’m here to negoitate)

The dog’s ears perked, “Estonu en cantu?”(Negotiate with who?)

“Vos tu.” (You know who.) Valerie smiled. The wolf morphed back into a man, winked at her, “A los vivos, huntera czarna.” (Live well, red hunter) and returned to his task of lifting boxes. Sam watched, pale, then deflated. “Some guard dog you are. Danny’s in the loft.”

“Thanks.” Valerie smirked and passed by, climbing a clanging metal staircase to an observation deck office of the warehouse. She opened the door and there he was, in a suede coat she didn’t recognize, a dial phone pressed to his ear. Their eyes met and he held up a finger to his mouth, briefly, then nodded to a chair against the wall. She stepped inside. The office was more or less barren, save for the chair, some boxes, the receiver, a suitcase, and a stack of cash about five inches high on the windowsill.

“I can send you one.” Danny said, pulling a notebook from his breast pocket and writing, “But I can’t connect you to the outside internet, dude, we’ve talked about this. If you want internet in the zone, you’ve got to invent it for yourself. Human connects will just cause trouble.”

Valerie sank into the chair. She was suddenly parched.

“No, it’s not black magic. I think. How about I transfer you to Tucker?” Danny picked the receiver off the floor, punched in a number, and hung up. He grinned at her, cherry despite the bags uber his eyes, “Hey Val. You’re here for an interview.”

Pointedly not a question. She raised her eyebrows,”I am?”

Danny pointed at the newspaper clutched in her hand, the thing she had entirely forgotten she was still carrying. “Aren’t you responding to my ad?”

“I didn’t see an ad.”

“I didn’t technically submit one.”

“Don’t be funny.” She stood, uncomfortable, wary. “What are you trying to do, Danny?”

He plopped on the ground and began to open one of the boxes, “Did you know what the Box Ghost comes to Amity for?”

“Specifically to annoy me.”

Danny snorted, nodding in agreement, “Also, boxes. Did you know he’s not interested in coming here so long as he can  _ get _ boxes?” Danny gave her a look, “Did you know that most ghosts come here in distress, or are seeking help?”

“ _ Distress _ ?” She released a short, high tone laugh, “Don’t you mean  _ rage _ ?”

“Distress can be rage sometimes.” He shrugged, “It can be a lot of things. The point is, ghosts have unstable mental health issues, and if somebody were around to mediate, negotiate, send boxes, find lost things, or whatever else they  _ need _ , the amount of ghosts invading Amity Park can drop to a trickle. We can start  _ helping _ them, instead of catch-releasing the same problem over and over again.”

Incredulous, Valerie tried to think of all the ghosts that just wouldn’t work for, but the only ghost in her mind was that one, that little phantom girl… So she settled on the next best problem, “You know ghosts don’t  _ have _ phones, right?”

“Not all of them. Yet.”

“So how is this even supposed to work?”

He grinned. “That’s what I need you for, Val.”

“Me?”

“You.”

She squinted at him suspiciously, “What makes you think  _ I _ can do anything?”

“I know you know I know.” Danny replied calmly, leaning over the open box and plucking at its contents. He produced a couple of small, green mobile flip phones and gave them to her; they had skulls embossed on their cases. “You’re a ghost hunter, second best in the city -”

“ _ Second _ best!”

“I have a scoreboard to prove it.”

“And I have the guns to prove otherwise.”

He laughed, “You’re hired.”

“This isn’t a job interview!”

His eyes glinted, and for a second she saw a flash of something not there - because it couldn’t be - “Don’t you want to be paid for everything you’ve done for the city?  _ Real _ money?”

She hesitated. “I don’t need money to do the right thing. And I don’t want Vlad Masters in my pockets.”

“Me neither. It’s city funding. Vlad lost a bet, but it’s still not his money.” Danny got up and took the enormous stack of cash off the windowsill, split it in half, and placed the taller stack ( _ holy shit, Benjamin Franklin _ ) into her hands. “Here. Back-pay.”

The money felt heavy, but it made her stomach growl. There were ten thousand reasons this wasn’t going to work. She shouldn’t take the job. “When do I start?”

“Ten minutes ago. Tucker clocked you in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I decide to make this a thing? Yes. Yes I did. Because those hard workin' millennials need Real Actual Paying Jobs. And health insurance.


	2. It's a Spectrum

Jazz stepped into her office. It still had that new-carpet smell. Most of the boxes had been unpacked, but a stack of mementoes remained in the corner, awaiting the purchase of more shelving. She set a fresh cactus in the windowsill. The phone had a large reception network hooked up to the main computer, and she could click through calls one by one, which were forwarded to her office through Tucker at reception. She pulled a notebook from the desk drawer, sat down, and opened the call program. She already had three callers in line. The first was a regular, a ghost with no memories and a great deal of anxiety. After a half hour of conversation, she graciously thanked them for calling, and started her second appointment.

The voice on the other end made her stomach drop. “I see you’ve decided to continue on with therapy. What a permissible amount of disappointment you must have ahead of you.”

She set her teeth, “Spectra. Lovely to hear from you,” she lied, “I should warn you that the lines are set up with ectoenergy blocks. You won’t benefit from any emotions you might be trying to elicit from me.”

“Me? Elicit callous emotions from  _ you? _ Darling, I couldn’t burst your bubble if I tried,” she could hear her wicked smile, “and I  _ have _ tried.”

“You gave it a great effort.” Jazz pressed her lips together, pausing to scribe the general information from the call. “From my previous observations I found you to be a very focused ghost, with an exceptional intelligence. You’ve integrated with humans better than most of your species could ever dream of.”

“You’re flattering me.”

“I think it’s good to start with your strengths.”

“Did they teach you that in therapy school?”

Jazz remained silent, writing furiously. 

“Oh? You haven’t  _ gone _ to therapy school, have you?”

“Working on it.” She replied, “I can assure you, everybody at the call center has been given basic response training, and we’re working on setting up a department for specialized therapists, but research on ghost psychology leaves a lot to be desired. It’s a largely unexplored field that I hope to bring light to in the future.”

“Aren’t you just a little burst of sunshine.”

Jazz smiled, “I do my best. Now what can I help you with today?”

The other line buzzed with the ice-creaking static of the ghost zone’s groaning atmosphere. “I was told to use this phone if I found myself in distress.”

“So are you in distress?”

“Oh dearest, bright young girl, of course I am,” Spectra laughed, “it’s my central basis for energy. Malcontent is how I survive. So I was thinking…about your ‘services’.”  _ Oh no, _ Jazz tapped the desk, staring out the window at the warehouse across the street. “I think I would like to help.”

She stopped tapping, “uh, um. What?”

“Well, my certification may be fifty or sixty years out of date,” Spectra hummed, “but I am an actual therapist.”

“I remember your brand of therapy,” Jazz replied flatly, “I’m not sure that terrorizing our base is really the angle we’re going for.”

“Terrorize? Oh, you’ve got me all wrong. This is a service I would like to perform for my own kind. You said it yourself,” Spectra asserted, her voice full of the same sickly sweet honey she’d used to manipulate the minds of children, “there’s a great deal that you humans don’t know about ghost psychology. Well, I am a ghost, and a psychoanalyst. Do you think that I can’t bring some new insight to your little research project?”

“You won’t be able to feed from your customers.” Jazz warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Or the staff.”

“Never. At least, not on  _ purpose.” _

Jazz glared at the receiver for a long while. Then she sighed, set her pen down, and started to dial a transfer, “I’ll connect you to Danny for an interview.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. Don't expect me to work hard, this fic is just for fun.


	3. Juxaposition

The door burst open with a belated warning from his PA and a call for security. He did not even need to look up to know exactly who stomped into the room with an emotional aura of fire and fury. Vlad leaned over, pressed the com button, and canceled the security check.

“How could you let this happen?!”

Vlad continued to read the amendments from the state legislature, signing the corner of each page, “you’ll have to be more specific, Madeline.”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Viper’s venom in her voice.

Whispers called in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, but he could still  _ smell _ and  _ hear _ the source of his obsession. A very, very chaotic part of himself wanted to cave to her every demand. His teeth ached to sharpen, but he remained in careful control, “am I to assume this is in regards to your son?”

Her hands slammed down on the desk. No avoiding it now. At least his eyes were blue, cool, calm, collected. _ Think empty thoughts. _ A finished glass. Wind across a park bench. He smiled, “the city council approved the initiative unanimously.”

“You were behind it.”

“I lost a bet.” Vlad set aside his pen, “say what you will about me but I am a man of my word.”

In an unusual turn, Maddie had dressed casually. She almost looked foreign without the hazmat suit and personal arsenal. There was of course still a baton strapped to her belt, and Vlad wondered how she managed to get it through the security checkpoint. “He’s still a child.” She said with her usual passionate flare, “you can’t just — ”

“He’s eighteen.”

“It’s dangerous!” A ripple in her aura, a cascade like an avalanche; Vlad picked up the pen and pretended to be very busy with paperwork, though he didn’t read a single word. “You know what those — those monsters will do to him? There’s no reasoning with those deranged, horrible, proto-conscious  _ beasts _ .”

Ink spilled, splotching all over the paper. He’d accidentally melted the nib. Embarrassed, he trashed the pen and quickly moved the offending paper into appropriate folders. “You better than anyone know what they are, Vlad.” Maddie continued with quiet intensity, “you know that ghosts can’t change. Their nature is not like ours.”

He folded his hands on the desk. “I’m afraid I haven’t studied ghosts in a very long time.” About twelve hours, to be precise.

“They’re evil. What’s to know?”

His jaw set. He took a deep breath and made himself think of books, football, moon landing conspiracies. None of it distracted him from the fact that  _ Maddie Fenton  _ had every ounce of her attention on _ him _ .

And if he was being perfectly honest, the subject matter couldn’t be more annoying. “You know what I think, Madeline?”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“I think that science is a study in objectivity, an observance of objective fact, and conclusions based on that observance. I think your son has come up with a hypothesis, one which if true could save not only a great deal of money, but lives as well. I also think that you have, for a very long time, based your conclusions on preconceived notions of reality. And at some point in your work, you ignored objective reasoning in favor of supporting your own unproven claims.” Vlad stood up and walked around his desk, facing her directly. In proximity, he had to fight a somewhat feral urge to hiss, “You call yourself a scientist, but in reality,  _ you _ are a  _ fanatic _ .”

Her mouth opened, shock and outrage written on her face, “I am a concerned mother worried about the safety of my son.”

“He’s far more capable than you give him credit.”

“You gave him a suicide pill!”

“Your son is out there trying to make the world a better place,” Vlad replied evenly, “and here you are trying to dismantle everything he’s worked for. Opinions aside, you should be proud of him for what he’s trying to accomplish.”

“I will not stand idly by and watch him perish over some misguided idea of saving the damned,” she glared, “you might have your little council of cronies behind this, but I will not be silent. I will do whatever it takes to end this project.”

“Fine. Start a petition, gather a protest,” Vlad opened the door, “but please, don’t come crying to me when you ruin your relationship with him.”

“I’m protecting him. It’s what mothers do.”

Vlad sighed, “have you tried listening to him? Or do you think he’s as unreasonable as your...monsters?”

She stormed out, which was all well and good, because Vlad had very definitely grown a set of obvious fangs. And what would she think of him then? He’d be just another deranged, horrible, proto-conscious beast. Mustn’t have that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what that bet was about...


	4. Popular

There had been zero calm since the Call Center opened. It seemed that every member of the general public needed to stop in and give their opinion - most of which was, well, unflattering to say the least. Tucker considered himself the first line of defense against the onslaught, so needless to say, one week in and he was exhausted. The front desk was covered in paperwork stacked a mountain high. He fielded guests at the front desk from inquiries to insults. The phone rang off the hook, and very few of those calls happened to be actual clientele. 

So he held his coffee a little close when a knock rapped on the door Monday morning. Wulf, in a very stylish human shape, stopped organizing inventory and gave the door a wary look. Tucker answered it. 

He had encountered half the town already, so he wasn’t necessarily surprised at the posse gathered at the door, but he did find the foil-covered baking dish in Kwan’s hands to be a little suspicious. “Hey,” A-Lister Dash Baxter stepped up to the front, carrying a box, “got something for you.”

“Is it poison?”

Dash rolled his eyes, “what kind of a guy do you think I am? Wait, look don’t answer that, it’s just snacks, see?”

He tipped the box, and it was indeed full of all kinds of processed garbage food. Tucker removed a bag of chips, squinting at it, “poison snacks?”

“Why would they be poisoned?”

“You have no idea the amount of shit I have seen this week. Literally. Actual shit. On that porch.”

Dash stepped inside, eyeing the stained doormat with distaste. The others followed, cramming into the small cordoned off reception area. Paulina stepped across the line and Wulf growled, Tucker gestured furiously, “estas bone!” (it’s fine!)

“Where is your kitchen?” Paulina turned looked around the huge, mostly empty space, messes contained to particular corners, office cubicles built against the far end.

“Kitchen? This is a warehouse.”

“You don’t have a fridge?” She sighed, “I told you, Dash, we made too many tamales.”

“It’s impossible to make too many tamales.”

“They don’t have a fridge!”

“We’ll get them a fridge.”

“We spent all the money!”

“I can make more money.”

“It’s fine, guys,” Tucker said, gesturing for the others to come on in, “we’ve got a break table you can set this stuff on in the back, and Danny can put them on ice. It’s not a big deal.”

“See? They have a cooler.” Dash and company followed him to the back table to set down a huge assortment of boxes and bags, and one flower patterned ceramic dish. 

Tucker watched in relative amazement. Sam appeared at his elbow, her face as confused as he felt, “what are they doing here?” She whispered.

He shrugged. “What are you guys doing here?”

“It’s not obvious?” Kwan asked, “we’re supporting the cause.”

“Yeah, the elderly might think that ghosts are nothing more than a plague, but,” Star took off her sunglasses, looking around, “we think they’re good. Or they can be good.”

“Phantom’s good.”

“And that - oh that cute little dog.”

“I met a ghost boy with a motorcycle once, he was very nice.” Paulina added, “they’re not all evil. And the ghost hunters do good, but, this,” she grinned, “this is better.”

Sam released a breath, shook her head, and walked away. Tucker opened a box and found it stuffed to the brim with cleaning supplies. “I guess we needed a bunch of this stuff. Um, thank you, I don’t really know how to repay you, we’ve kind of spent the entire month’s stipend…”

“No money, no payback.” Paulina said swiftly, “we want to volunteer.”

“Volunteer?”

“To man the phones,” Dash supplied, “I can do Tuesday Thursdays after three, Kwan’s got Friday’s off.”

“I can do weekends.” Star said.

Paulina beamed, “and I’m currently unemployed, so I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sam returned holding a clipboard with a notepad on top, she gave it to Dash, “name, contact info, availability. We’ll get back to you within the week.”

“They’re volunteering,” Tucker said, flummoxed, “Sam.”

“I heard,” she offered a rare smile, “don’t be so surprised. They’ve always liked the ghosts.”

“Or at least one of them,” Paulina said, taking the clipboard, “do you need my email or just my phone number?”

“Both works.” Sam replied, “thanks for coming in, by the way. We’ve had enough hate at the door that some actual support is highly appreciated.”

“Yeah, well, just tell Fenton he’s got some real stones going against his parents like that,” Dash shook his head, “can’t even imagine having my mom organizing an entire mob against me.”

Sam and Tucker traded looks, “wait, what?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Huge thing. All over the internet.”

“I haven’t been online,” Tucker said, pulling out his phone, “what are you talking about?”

“Protest. City Hall plus a march down to the call center. Five o’clock.”

“Today?”

“Today, then going on all week.”

“That’s why we brought all the food,” Paulina said, not unkind, “you guys probably aren’t going to be going back outside for a while…”

Tucker started texting furiously. Sam took the clipboard back, thanked their guests, and escorted them out. “You have my number,” Dash said in passing, “just call, whatever you need, I’ve got a truck, extra TP, a BB gun…” he tuned out the rest. Danny had already responded, a relief, since the Ghost Zone didn’t always have the best reception.

_ On my way back. Have a new team member. Using Fruit-O-Loom’s portal. ETA 30. _


	5. 525,600 minutes

“You can wait until later.”

“No,” Danny insisted, “I have to deal with this eventually. Might as well be now.”

The small, lithe sports car pulled around the corner, slowly working through a crowd of picket-signs and protest chanting. He jolted when a passerby banged on the window, and the driver let out a low growl.

“Is she out there?”

“Somewhere,” Vlad replied, stopping in front of a narrow alley. Protestors blocked their path, but none could see through the tinted windows to the passengers inside, “you know, I never understood protesting. What does it accomplish?”

“It’s how changes are made, dude.”

“Bricks through windows are how changes are made, Daniel,” Vlad sighed, “humanity speaks through violence.”

“Yeah, I don’t believe in that.”

“You’re young.”

He held his beat-up, third generation thermos to his chest, considering the consequences of what was inside. Only hours had passed since Spectra had offered her services, “do you think I’m doing the right thing, at least?”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“I don’t,” embarrassed, he grabbed the door handle, “dunno why I asked.”

“You’re going to keep facing negativity.” Vlad replied, “you need to learn to take that in stride.”

Danny frowned, “I’ve always faced that, though.”

“A ghost is a temporary persona. This is different. You may find humans are more troublesome than ghosts.” Vlad spotted a green-painted megaphone and a shock of red hair, “speaking of trouble.”

Danny sighed, stepping out, “Thanks for the ride, fruitcake.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

He closed the door and watched the Rolls Royce _Ghost_ fold back into the crowd. He managed to read a picket sign, _Inviting Spirits is An Act of Terrorism!_ Then a hand came down on his shoulder, and a microphone blasted in his ear, and he didn’t really think. He grabbed the hand, twisted, and spun them on the ground. Startled eyes, a gasp of pain, betrayal in the face of a stranger. Voices clamored. Cameras flashed. Another called out _assault_ and Danny went running for the door. 

The last thing he heard before ducking inside, slipping through the hands that tried to snag him, was his own mother’s voice, amplified through a speakerphone, _“Monsters are Real! There’s no changing them!”_

The warehouse door banged shut. Wulf moved a lock into place, and he looked around at the small collection of his allies. Tucker held up a couple cups of coffee, Sam offered her condolences in a nod, and Jazz remained unwavering with her positivity as she ducked over a phone. Outside, the public raged.

No changing them.

Danny walked over to a table and set the thermos on top, switching the release switch, and the temperature of the room shifted as yet another ghost arrived.

 _Yet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 am here have some sauce


	6. Needles in a Haystack

She spotted her query just shy of six am, on the cusp of a day that promised to turn the evening chill into stew. Valerie had been looking forward to a ghost-free midday nap; her work had been more exhausting than usual. She levered her gun at her opponent, nerves tangled up in her gut as he listed against the back of a billboard.

At least this particular ghost was known for his conversational fluency.

“You gonna shoot, or what?”

Valerie wavered, the gun lowered to her side with a sigh, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

Phantom cracked his usual smile, and he opened one eye, “been busy, Red.”

“You here to terrorize the town?”

“Am I ever?”

It’s one thing to hunt ghosts. Just point and shoot. Easy.

 _Talking_ to them?

Almost more trouble than it was worth. Not everything she encountered was exactly sentient. And despite Fenton’s brightest intentions, many of them were as mean and violent as ever. But Phantom is, was, and always has been a little bit different. For one thing, he’s the only ghost who seems more interested in napping than facing the hunter directly in front of him. “Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Yippee.”

He sank onto the work platform, laying down completely and throwing his hands behind his head. He sighed, “are you just going to stare at me, or…?”

“Not used to seeing you…” tired? Vulnerable? “Like this. You lose a fight or something?”

He huffed, “you could say that.”

Her board retracted into the soles of her boots and she set foot on the platform, careful. Phantom was the kind of ghost that could move in a blink. Not _quite_ as dangerous as the teleportation-types but still pretty virulent. She diverted additional power to her built-in ectoshields, “you wanna, um. Wanna talk about it?”

“Wow.” He opened his eyes, vibrant green things that still had dilated pupils, a hallmark of a young ghost, “you’re really changing your act. Wonder why?”

“Peace and goodwill?”

He sat up, then immediately sank to rest against the railing, “you gonna stick to that, or are you gonna go right back to hating and hunting? Now that’s the real question of the hour.”

“How I hunt isn’t really your business.” She set her hand on her hip, “and if this is just some complaint about your lack of popularity—”

He laughed. A short bark that left him hunched over himself and trembling. Valerie crouched to get a better look at him; he started to hold his stomach, his face decidedly green, “you okay?”

“No.” His body, usually solid and opaque, turned translucent and misted at the edges before snapping back, “feels like the whole world wants me dead. _Dead_ -dead.” He grinned, “used to be I could handle that. I’d prove them all wrong. Do my best. Yadda, yadda. Now...fuck. I don't want to go to sleep, and then when I do, I don’t want to wake back up.”

“Ghosts don’t sleep.”

“Figure of speech, then.”

She slipped a canvas backpack off her shoulder, and removed a small flip-phone, embossed with a silver skull. “Um,” she held it out. He gave it a cursory glance, then went back to half-fading in the fresh sunlight, “there’s people you can call. People who want to help.”

“Already got one.” He fished a smartphone from his pocket, a new model. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to talk to a Fenton right now.”

“You know about that?”

“You could say I’ve been recruited.” He pulled two more flip phones from the pouch on his belt, the same embossment etched over the top, “same as you.”

“But—you’re a—” she stopped herself before she said something she’d regret. “Guess the world is changing.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. This could all just blow up in my face.”

“Is it that big of a deal to you?”

“Do you think I want to be hunted down all the time?”

“Hmm,” She pressed her back to the billboard and surveyed the town. Traffic had begun to accumulate in droves down the main highways. The typical chatter of birds overwhelmed by the rumble of a city on the rise, “well, if there’s any ghost out there who could be an advocate for this whole...system, it’s you.”

He smiled, his skin brightened considerably. If she wasn’t wearing protective gear Valerie was certain that she would have felt a chill sweep through the air, “but what do you do when your own family thinks you shouldn’t exist?”

 _“You_ have a family?”

“What, you think I just appeared out of thin air one day?”

“Weird to think about.” She folded her arms, looking down at the city below and wondering who out there could possibly be related to the ghost boy, “they still alive?”

“Alive. Anti-ghost. Not interested in dialog about it. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Well,” she sighed, “there are a lot more people in your corner than you think.”

Phantom hung his arms over the railing, watching the traffic flow from east to west. His voice dropped to a low echo, “are you one of them?”

“I think you’re too powerful to take lightly.” She leaned on the railing, and her mask retracted. The fresh air felt marvelous in her hair, “but I also think you’re trying to be a force for good. It’s, um, you’re actually the reason I...took Fenton’s offer.”

“Me?” He blinked, “wait, but you hate me?”

“I don’t _trust you.”_ She clarified, “but I don’t hate you. You’ve saved a lot of people. You don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal just because you’re undead.”

“Huh. Thanks,” his face flushed, “means a lot coming from you.”

She considered the pain in her side from her last fight, and the pain in her throat from trying to shout over the howling of a not-so-sane poltergeist. “Wish it was this easy to talk to the other ghosts.”

Phantom had a gleam in his eye, and his lips twitched upward, “we could work together, you know. Tag-team it.”

“And then the city’s two greatest ghost hunters turn to ghost-helpers?” she chuckled, “that’s some kind of crazy.”

“So crazy it just might work?”

“Would definitely send a message.” She thought about it, then holstered her gun, reactivated her mask, and her board appeared beneath her as she stepped off the platform, “well? You gonna patrol with me or what? Spooks still got a couple hours before it’s too hot to haunt.”

When he stood up it was like his exhaustion disappeared, and Phantom's usual bravado brought color to his cheeks, “let’s go change the world, Red.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wonder when I'll remember how to set up some proper expo.


	7. Update

Jazz stacked a set of textbooks on the table, a quickly-gathered collection of what she considered the basics of information, including but not limited to the  _ Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association, The Psych Handbook, _ and  _ The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. _ On the very top of the stack, she set a small tablet that Tucker had set limited internet access on, “alright, this should be a good start. I brought coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

Green, vibrant eyes glinted at her from behind a set of semi-transparent spectacles, and pointed teeth split open bright red lips, “I no longer have functioning taste buds, nor a stomach.”

“So, no.”

Spectra took the cup anyway, “I suppose it can’t hurt. Is this your...research?”

“Oh, I’ve already read all of these.” Jazz pulled a notebook, sticky pads, and a pen pouch from her bag, adding it to the desk, “this is all for you. Danny did tell you he expected you to get up-to-date with the latest and greatest, right?”

“I thought he was talking about phones.” Her lip twitched downward, “what is all of this?”

“Relevant information. Your license is old, out of date,” a freeze fluctuated through the room and Jazz drew her coat closer to herself, “if you want to be a counselor here, you’re going to need to update your knowledge.”

Spectra folded her hands in front of herself, “ah. I see. So you think my skills are...short-handed?” Her smile never wavered, “does this have to do with our previous engagement as therapist and student, dear? Because I made it very clear I am not to counsel any humans.”

“No.” Jazz pulled up a chair and broke out her eighteen-step learning-plan, a handmade graphic organizer for the ghost to follow, “this is because you practiced during the era that they were ‘treating’ people with  _ lobotomies. _ It’s my job to make sure you don’t turn this into a Saturday night horror show. So, time to study.”

The ghost picked up the computer and inspected it, turning it over and over, “what is this?”

“For research. Looking up terms and definitions. I’m going to show you how to use it.” 

Jazz took the tablet, opened it to reveal the keyboard, then powered it up and gave it back. The battery died as soon as it entered Spectra’s cold fingers. She shook her head, giving it back, “sorry. Energy-draining is kind of my shtick.”

“Uh,” she got up and dug around a few boxes until she found an extension cord, then hooked up the tablet to wall power. After a few minutes, it came back to life, and she gave it back. Spectra took the computer. Ten seconds later, the power went out on the entire block. 

Her glowing visage was the only light remaining, smiling as always, “how about a dictionary?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya’ll are so nice. My writing is not what it would be if I had access to medications, so I’m usually really unhappy with my work when it comes out in the format you see before you. But the response I’ve had on this fic has shown me that an idea is worth more than preconditioned notions of quality. Thanks for all the support, it really warms my heart. I hope I can continue to feed your gremlin needs after midnight.


	8. Call Home

There are some conversations that are like ripping off a band-aide, and then there are some that are more akin to ripping the duct-tape off your bare chest because you had the misfortune to fall asleep at a party where the attendees were more frienemies than allies. Danny held the phone to his ear and kept his eyes on the city down below, watching the evening traffic rush to fill restaurants and bowling-alleys, movie theaters and outlet-malls. 

He had better reception down below, but he didn’t really _want_ to hear the other end of this call too clearly. “You’re keeping the ecto-filtrator cleaned, right?” He asked, one of the few casual questions he kept reserved for the awkward spaces between their silences.

His mother’s voice is charged with tension, “yes. Like I do every Thursday.”

“The portal’s closed at night? You know how dad likes to leave it open.”

“I check it multiple times a day.” The speed of her words, the tone of her voice. She wanted this conversation to end more badly than he did. She gave a drop of concern, a hint of remorse, “are they going to press charges?”

“The cops in this town are pretty legit,” he shrugged, “they get PTSD reactions and said my case would be tossed out by a judge. So, uh, no charges, no.” And just because he knew she wanted to hang up, he pressed on, “guess it helps I’m a Fenton, right? Wouldn’t want to think of how they’d treat Tucker...”

“Are you implying what I think you’re implying, _again?”_

Danny had no desire to relive an argument about biases and police brutality with his mother. Sometimes the horse was just dead. Beating it would never make it move. “The police are good people, hard workers,”

“I know mom.” He said, swift, “they see the real horrors. I get it, I’m not in the mood—can we just? Can we talk?”

Defensive, stiff, “about what?”

She said it in a way that also said _it better not be ghosts._ Which he accepted before he had got out his phone in the first place. “I dunno. Normal stuff?”

He sat on the edge of a tower. He could see Fentonworks from his perch, a distant beacon of neon hazards casting more ominous glow than most ghosts could ever produce; a constant glare that changed the tone of the city and cast it in the name of Fenton. He imagined his mother in there, hunched over a workbench and carefully welding her latest experiment while dinner burned on the stove. He imagined his father saving a roast from the oven before it turned to charcoal, and pictured the setting of two plates full of dry, seasonless chicken. He pictured the empty chairs at the table, already stacked with blueprints and coffee cans full of half-drawn ideas that Jack so relentlessly scattered on the available house surfaces. Did they keep a space open for him?

“I have a lot of work to do,” Maddie said, finally, “so whatever you have to say, say it.”

“I’m not trying to say anything. I just want to talk.”

“Well. You’ve got some mail at the house.You should come by and pick it up by the end of the week, or it’s gone.”

“Okay.” Danny shifted, sitting from a height like this in his human form, no matter how safe it really was, always gave him the heebie jeebies. He wished he had something nice to say, like, ‘have you tried that new Thai restaurant?’ or ‘I helped a god patch a hole in space-time last week’ but he didn’t know any new restaurants and conversations about Clockwork with his parents were off the table, all things considered. What he did have on his mind he knew she wouldn’t like, but he said it anyway, because it was all that he could come up with, “fixed a bug in the phones. Ghost-Zone calls have this real bad echo, and I managed to modify the audio output so that it catches on only one frequency and reduces white noise.”

He thought she might be proud. He did some ecto-engineering.

“That’s nice.” Insincere. “Your father and I completed a vivisection of a class four. We’ve been learning how to convert direct core samples into better charges for the ecto weapons. It’s a lot more focused energy than base-ectoplasm.”

He shivered. It’s not the falling he’s afraid of. It’s the landing. “You’re taking out their cores?”

“It’s the strongest part of the ghost.”

“That’s a _soul,_ mom.”

She laughed. They had radically different concepts of ectoplasmic theory. The only problem was, she thought she was right and he knew she wasn’t. Again, horses and whips, but this one was worth a little extra hoofing, “Ghost cores are the center of the ghost, it’s what they grow out of when they start to form, it’s what they are. When you take those you might as well be ripping their still-beating heart from their chest.”

“We don’t take the whole core,” his mother chastised, “that would disintegrate the sample. It’s just pieces.”

Mortified, Danny let go of the phone, and by force of will alone it hovered near his ear while he wrapped his arms around himself in remorse for whatever poor creature had found their way under a Fenton’s knife. 

He hoped to never be one of them. 

And yet his mother’s words could still cut, “so have any of your subjects learned to dial a number?”

“Uh. The phones don’t work like that, it’s kind of a single-line connection.”

“Couldn’t do it any other way, right?”

Ghosts don’t absorb new information well. She knew it and so did he, but the attitude wasn’t really necessary, “yeah, I’ve had lots of calls. Getting new clients every day.”

“Danny,” Maddie said with the weight of warning, “I can’t sit by and watch you make this mistake, knowing that in the end—”

“What?” He set his teeth, glaring green.

“—you’re only going to get hurt.” She pleaded. It felt like false care. Attention to the paper cut instead of the knife in his back. “Ghosts are not people. They physically, chemically, do not behave or think in the same way we do. You can’t expect to—”

“The only person hurting me right now is you.” He sighed, hanging up. The night was nice. The moon full. Plenty of stars. Orion shined directly overhead. Time, space, the distance between objects. He slipped off the roof, changing form as he did, and went for a flight to get as much time and space as he could between himself and FentonWorks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something really freeing about first draft no-fucks-given writing. I think Gertrude Stein was onto something. Not poetry. But something.


End file.
